


See How Deep the Bullet Lies

by Dreaming_Spire



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Other, Post-Finale, body horror?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_Spire/pseuds/Dreaming_Spire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the end of <i>Hannibal</i>, Frederick Chilton recovers, as much as he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See How Deep the Bullet Lies

During the final grafts, he dreams. Afterwards, he doesn’t remember details, but he remembers that he dreams. Jumbled images, flashes of Hannibal, of anger, of the Dragon, of burning, of pain, always pain, and then he wakes to more pain and the sterile chamber.

He stares into the mirror at the wreck of himself. He inspects every new addition, all of these patchwork selves knitting together. Is it to search for signs of rejection, to inspect the scars, or to see if he can emerge from under all of these strangers being sewn onto what’s left of him?  
They say the face will be the worst. They say they can give him lips again, even reconstruct his cheekbone. The metal plate heated underneath, burning flesh from both sides, leaving a swath of destruction that’s become an opportunity.

Some of the donors could have been healthy. Many are dead, quickly and violently. This is the case for the final one. He is informed, with little time to spare, that most of his face has arrived. Someone’s misfortune has benefited him again, dying in a way that leaves a perfect head behind, a scalp, lips, ears and a swath of skin no longer needed by anyone but Frederick. They even ask if he’d like a new eye – well, a new cornea. The color won’t quite match, they say, but he feels he’s in no position to decline.

The contrast is jarring. One half of his gaze has gone from dull green to bright blue. The first time he stares at it, he thinks it stares back, shocked, accusing him. “I didn’t kill you,” he whispers, or thinks he whispers. He can’t move his lips, the lips that are his now. It’s not long before he’s distracted by the scar running high across his forehead, the one they tell him will disappear into the hairline once it regrows. 

He has time to adjust. The skin stretches, the hair grows, the pain becomes less pressing. He has time to wonder who all of these people were. The eye keeps telling him the others will never fully leave. He tries to imagine what they were like. He realizes he does not want to know.  
But the eye won’t let it rest. It reminds him that it, at least, has company. The lips, hair, ears, the eye are all familiar strangers, and they belong together. When the doctors allow him to touch his face, he traces the lines where they join him. He asks about the final donor. The doctors skirt the question. The nurses ignore him. He is reduced to guessing.

He gets only one indication of the truth. When he wonders whether he can regrow his beard, the nurse says she doubts it. He strokes the unfamiliar skin, paler than his before the burns, softer, and he looks at the lips again. They are fuller, with more of a bow. They are, he realizes, a woman’s. Were.  
His new hair grows in, softer as well, both in texture and color. Something else grows, a small, cold feeling somewhere within him, telling him something he desperately tries not to hear. He doesn’t want to know, and yet, once he is allowed computer access, he begins to search for the answer he hopes won’t be forthcoming.

He finds it anyhow. He reads every detail of the crime report. It doesn’t say what happened afterwards, but he knows. His breathing becomes rapid. It is one more cruel joke – is he the butt of this one, or is he a tool again, the means for someone else’s final humiliation? Does it matter? It does, but he’ll never know which it is. Given the source, it could be both. He can almost hear the mocking comment. _She took your place, Fredrick. She became a better version of you. Now it’s your chance._

He thinks of what these lips have touched, what was whispered into these ears, whose hand ran through this hair; he wants to be sick. He takes up the mirror again, and thinks he sees the contemptuous look in the eye, the same dismissive flick she always sent in his direction. The lips curl in revulsion, and he recognizes her expression even as he performs it. He wonders whether Hannibal considers this a gift or a loan. He realizes he doesn’t care, or he’s trying not to. “Nice to see you again, Dr. Bloom,” he says, and waits to see who blinks first.

**Author's Note:**

> Not a doctor - I've taken some liberties with the way transplants work. I'm sure there are loads of errors. Sorry I'm not very sorry about this, as I was not pleased about the toasting.


End file.
